


Special Friend

by twyly56



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Based Off a Picture I Saw Once, Because He's a Ginger Maniac, Brunch Meetings, Clown Suits, Crack Treated Seriously, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubious Morality, Featuring Baby Penguin Martin, Fluff and Crack, I Don't Even Know If This is Funny, Jerome Just Wants Some Cuddles From Pengy, Jerome Valeska Loves Cute Things, Light Angst, Light Petting, Light Sadism, Mimes, Non-Consensual Cuddling, Oswald Is Sort of Scared of Jerome, Oswald Is a Cute Lil Penguin, Presents, Randomly Breaking Out, Reluctant Oswald Cobblepot, Scars, There's A Tag For That, Touch-Starved, Worried Oswald Cobblepot, compromises, is that too much to ask?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-08-24 09:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twyly56/pseuds/twyly56
Summary: Jerome kinda thinks that Oswald is just the most adorable thing he's ever seen, and he just wants to cuddle him like a penguin plushy. Oswald is just confused.





	1. I'll Be Your Best Friend

"TRAITORS! Every. Single One. Of. Them! Her. I will _flay_ her alive!" Oswald pounded his fists against the metal door. "Her and-" _pound_ "Gordon and-" _pound_ "Zsasz and-"

A loud metallic clang startled him, and he stopped yelling, his hands poised in the air by the door. A voice drifted to him, seemingly from all around, echoing in the scant hospital cell.  

"Hey, buddy..." 

He turned away from the door and raised his index finger towards the ceiling. He scowled, trembling with anger still. 

"Do not! Talk to me!" Oswald hissed. "You-" 

The voice interrupted him again.

"Hey, I get it pal... this place is full of loonies. I just thought we could help each other out," the voice offered, a Cheshire grin curling under the pleasant tone. 

Oswald finally figured out where the voice was coming from. He dropped to his knees and shuffled to the heavy grate at the bottom of the wall. He peered into it. It was dark below him, and he couldn't really see who was talking. 

"And how can _you_ help _me_?" Oswald asked. He huffed out a short laugh. 

"Well, not to toot my own horn, but I'm a very resourceful fella. So, toot. _Toot toot,_ " the voice said. A snicker followed the person's words that soon became a full fledged laugh.

Oswald froze in place, and he felt like ice water had just been dumped over his head.  

"Wait. I know that laugh," he said to himself. 

A familiar head of spiky orange hair poked in front of the grate, pink scarred lips pulled up in a wide grin. Oswald gasped and nearly recoiled at the sight. 

"So what do you say, pal? I'll be your best friend," Jerome said.

Oswald stared at him wordlessly, gaping in shock. The redhead pouted. 

"Give me a smile," Jerome said. His lips quirked up again, and he dissolved into laughter. 

 

Oswald sat down with his lunch tray with bland Arkham fare at an empty table away from the other inmates. He blinked when a Joker playing card landed on the tabletop in front of his tray. He looked up in the direction it had come from and had to bite back a groan. Jerome had his back to him unconvincingly, but he slowly turned to look at him. The poor lighting in the cafeteria really accentuated the dark circles under the redhead's eyes. Oswald quickly glanced away after their eyes met. The maniac strolled toward his table and offered him a charming smile. It was sort of ruined by the scarred tissue that pulled at his skin with every movement of the younger man's face. 

"Is this seat taken?" Jerome asked, his faux polite voice like gravel through a blender. 

Oswald kept his eyes resolutely on the table. 

"If I say yes, will it make a difference?" he asked. 

The redhead plonked into the seat next to his. To his exasperation, Jerome's left thigh was pressed to his, and seeing as he was already sitting on the edge of the bench, unless he wanted to fall on the floor or sit halfway off his seat, he couldn't move any further away from him. Jerome planted his elbows on the table and somehow managed to lean closer to him without actually knocking their shoulders together. Oswald grit his teeth in irritation. 

"You know..." His breath smelled like minty toothpaste. "I've always been a fan. When you got locked up in this loony bin, I expected great things. A murder or two. Uh, maybe a prison break." 

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you," Oswald replied. 

"Aw, don't be like that, Mr. Oswald. It's not all bad," Jerome said. His foot tapped against Oswald's, and the smaller man jerked in surprise. The redhead smirked. "See, you being all _mopey_ for the past six weeks gave me plenty of time to realize something. Do you wanna know what?" 

"I don't think it matters what I say at this point," Oswald muttered bitterly.

"It showed me that you are fuckin' adorable," Jerome said with a chuckle.

"What?" Oswald sputtered, looking up from the table and at the redhead in bafflement. 

He almost swallowed his tongue when Jerome patted his cheek with a glove hand. 

"Wh-what in the hell are you doing?" Oswald demanded. 

"Fuckin' adorable," Jerome purred and wrapped an arm around the smaller man's thin shoulders. Oswald jerked in place and stared at him with wide blue eyes. He really wasn't sure what was going on. Was the crazy ginger going to strangle him or something? 

Oswald pursed his lips when the younger man rubbed his scarred cheek against his forehead. It felt rough and kind of odd. It didn't hurt. It was just... weird. Jerome's body was very warm next to his. He just supposed he was grateful that none of the other inmates were actually paying attention to them. 


	2. Chapter 2

Dreams were a succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that usually occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. The content and purpose of dreams are not fully understood, although they have been a topic of scientific, philosophical and religious interest throughout recorded history. Dream interpretation is the attempt at drawing meaning from dreams and searching for an underlying message. The scientific study of dreams is called oneirology.

Oswald didn't need an interpretation to know what his dream meant. He was still really fucked up over what had happened with Ed. The whole thing was one big mess, and he wasn't sure that he'd ever actually recover from it. Love, love was foolish and inane and stupid. It blinded him, and he didn't want that to happen ever again. It hurt. It hurt too much. The kind of companionship he had with Martin, on the other hand, was pure and reciprocated. That was the kind he needed to keep alive. Which he could only do by staying put in this hellhole. 

He had fallen into an uneasy sleep to the tormented howls and chatter of his fellow inmates. The all too familiar chill of the dock, the spray of sea water, the grey clouds hanging low overhead, the gentle cadence of the waves, made his heart ache. The fear that had never gone away, not really, came rushing back as he stared at Edward holding a gun at his chest. 

_"I love you. I know you believe that now,"_ Oswald said, his voice coming out breathy. _"So you need to believe me when I tell you that by doing this, it will change you."_

_"I've killed before, Oswald,"_ Ed growled. 

_"Not like this. This won't be a crime of passion or self preservation. This will be the cold blooded murder of someone you love,"_ Oswald tried to tell him, emotion cracking his voice again. 

_"I. Don't. Love. You,"_ Ed said. His brown eyes were cold in his face, chilled like the air around them. 

Oswald felt a burning sensation in his eyes, pricking, threatening to spill over. He reached out to him with a tentative hand only to have it be slapped away. He grit his teeth. 

_"You need me, Edward Nygma! Just as I need you. You cannot have one without the other,"_ Oswald said. 

_"You killed Isabella,"_ Ed snarled, fingers tightening around the handle of the gun. 

_"The point is-"_

_"That IS the point!"_ Ed screamed.  _"I have wanted you to_ suffer _as I have suffered._ You _killed her, so_ you _die."_

_"When I met you, you were a jittery, nervous loser,"_ Oswald said evenly. His voice cracked as he continued.  _"I created Edward Nygma! And I am the only one in the world who truly sees you as you are. Who you can still become."_ He gasped in a wet breath,  _"You can't do this."_

Ed stared blankly at his hand for a few tense moments. 

_"Ed, are you listening to me?"_ Oswald asked. 

_"I must think,"_ Ed said. 

_"Say something,"_ Oswald pleaded. 

Ed looked back up at him. The expression on his face made his heart shatter. 

_"I loved her, Oswald."_ The bang of the gun barely registered in his ears, it was so abrupt. Pain bloomed in his abdomen, and Oswald looked down in shock. He pressed his hands to his stomach. They came away red, painted with his own blood.  _"And you killed her."_

Oswald met his eyes, and Ed grabbed the front of his shirt, balling it in his hand. He pulled Oswald for a moment, their breath mingling. Then, Ed shoved him away hard, and he fell. The frigid water was like a slap to the face. Ed's face blurred above him as he sank into the darkness again, lungs burning. 

He gasped in a breath as his nightmare faded away. His head ached, the taste in his mouth bitter. 

His eyes blinked open blearily at the grey cement wall in front of his face. A bead of cold sweat trickled down from his forehead. His heart _beat beat beat_ against his chest like a drum. The linen  of the thin pillow was scratchy under his cheek. The front side of his body was cold from where it was pressing into the wall, but there was something firm and warm pressed into his back. His sleep muddled mind didn't really register what it was. It just felt nice. Oswald all but screamed when he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist. He stiffened in the person's hold and was about to do something drastic when he heard them speak. 

"Hey, hey. Calm down, Mr. Oswald. It's just little ol' me," the redheaded maniac purred into his ear. 

"Mi a fasz van veled?!" Oswald hissed, just barely restraining himself from smacking away the gloved hands laying gently over his stomach. He didn't want to piss off the other man. Jerome Valeska was more than a little unhinged already. The Hungarian cuss had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"Mm, yes. Talk dirty to me, pal," Jerome said in a gravelly voice. "Say something else." 

"What are you doing in my bed? Or better yet, in my room? How did you get in here?" Oswald demanded as quietly as he could. 

"I grew up in the circus. Climbing up a vent is hardly the most difficult task I've ever done," Jerome said. "Ya know, other than and in between the beatings and slatternly behavior of my whore of a mother, I learned quite a lot there." 

Oswald didn't know what to say to that. It, well, was honestly pretty awful. It didn't excuse his behavior, but it did explain it a bit. Child abuse often led to mental health issues later in life. He might have been a lonely, bullied kid, but he'd at least had his mother. 

"Why - why are you hugging me?" Oswald asked instead. 

He jolted a bit when Jerome slotted his leg between his own and pressed his calf against Oswald's good one. Jerome's body felt like a warm fire to his clammy skin. It burned everything it touched. The redhead hummed a tuneless sound, pressing his rough cheek against the back of his bare neck. 

"You look really _cute_ when you sleep, Mr. Oswald," Jerome said. "But you looked like you needed a good snuggle, from the funny noises you were makin'. You didn't seem to mind me coming on over." 

That was... kind of creepy that Jerome was just watching him sleep for God knows how long before he actually climbed into his cot. Oswald hoped he hadn't said anything during his sleep. 

"But why?" Oswald asked. 

"I wanted to," Jerome answered him honestly. "A lot of people are just pansies that don't go after what they want. I don't get why people don't just go out and do what they want to. Life is too fucking short to waste it on pining and regret. I want to sleep with you, so I will." 

Oswald choked on air. 

"What?" he sputtered. 

"Oh," Jerome snickered. "Not like _that._  Get your mind out of the gutter, Mr. Oswald." He laid his head at the crook of Oswald's neck and giggled. His laughter sent vibrations dancing across Oswald's skin. 


	3. Chapter 3

Jerome seemed to randomly pop up, whether he was alone or out of his room. He would just put his arm around his shoulders, run a gloved hand over the back of his neck or his cheek, or sometimes both. They would sort of talk back and forth for a while, and the redhead would leave him alone. Oswald didn't know how he felt about having Jerome's all-consuming attention really, but it was pleasant at times. He would rather gargle a mug of broken glass than say that out loud. Ever. 

Some of the inmates from across the mental facility across the river were transferred to Arkham. A middle aged man with a scruffy dark beard and a shaved head in particular gave Oswald an uneasy feeling. The way he looked at him made him feel sick. It made him go and seek out the redhead to avoid being alone with Al. Jerome appeared to be pleased with Oswald coming to sit with him at lunch if the way he smiled and shoved off the nearest patient on the bench to make room for him was any indication. 

And Oswald did manage to keep away from the man, at least until he tried to take a shower a couple of days later. A pair of rough, calloused hands grabbed his shoulders. He knew instantly that it wasn't Jerome because the redhead never took off his gloves. His hands were also the wrong size, the fingers thick like sausages. Oswald tried to twist out of his grip to move away, but the other man slammed him chest first against the cold shower stall wall. The way the man pushed him made his head smack into the stall, making his head go fuzzy for a few moments. Something hot and wet licked him from the base of his chin to his temple. 

"Get off of me," Oswald said. He heard the man giggle into his ear, licking the side of his face again. Oswald grimaced. 

His lips curl back in a snarl, and he is about to bite the man's face when he goes to lick him again. Al is suddenly yanked off of him. Oswald slid down the stall wall and landed numbly on the floor of the shower. Jerome slammed the other man hard against the cement wall. There was a resounding smack from his back colliding with it. The blank expression on the ginger's face was actually more terrifying than when he grinned and cackled like the maniac he was. His eyes were all fiery anger. If looks could kill, then Al would have dropped dead already.

Oswald backed away, shaking, and Jerome slammed his gloved fist into Al's face. Cartilage made a sickening crunch under his hand. Blood bubbled out of his nose, and Al made a wet groan, clutching at his face. The redhead kicked Al between his legs, causing the older man to let out a high pitched shriek. Al stumbled to his knees, whimpering in pain pitifully. Jerome tilted his head to the side and leaned down toward him. He latched onto the back of his head with his long fingers, gripping it in what had to be a painful manner, and he roughly yanked Al's face away from his hands. Red poured freely down his face, staining the front of his shirt and even parts of his pants. 

"You don't touch him like that," Jerome growled. " _Ever._ " 

"Sorry, I didn't know he was your bitch, man," Al slurred out through his swollen lips. 

Jerome's face morphed in an expression of fury, and the next thing Oswald saw a wild arterial spray of blood flying up from his exposed neck. The redhead snickered and stabbed his throat this time instead of slicing. Al gurgled on his own blood, choking. The man slumped to the floor without Jerome to hold him in place, twitching weakly as he bled out on the tiled floor. Jerome reached inside the man's bloody mouth, and there was a squelching sound. His shank was in one hand and something pinkish red in the other. The redhead held it out to Oswald. Oswald felt his stomach lurch. It was the man's tongue. 

"I'm fine. Thank you," Oswald said. 

Jerome shrugged and tossed it behind his back. It landed in the urinal across the room with a small splash. The redhead rose to his feet, stripping off his stained gloves and setting them on the stall divider. He offered his hand to Oswald. His bare hand was pale and dotted with a light dusting of freckles. Oswald swallowed around the lump in his throat and grabbed his hand. He let himself be pulled to his feet. The air was cool against his wet skin. Jerome wrapped a towel around his shoulders. 

 

Jerome made sure that no one bothered him for the rest of the week, keeping even the guards away from his room. 

 

The ginger crawled out of his vent and walked over to him with a grey Thermos. Oswald glanced at him. Jerome unscrewed the lid and placed the open Thermos in his lap. He saw that it had a dark liquid. It smelled like tea. The metal was warm against his thighs. 

"Don't worry. It's just some chamomile tea," Jerome said, a grin spread across his scarred lips. "I heard that's good for ya." 

"Thanks," Oswald replied. 

"So, Mr. Oswald," Jerome began. Oswald looked down at the tea that the younger man had just set in his lap. "You're a resourceful guy. Why don't ya try and escape? Hmm?" 

Oswald felt his lips twitch into a wry grin. 

"It isn't any of your business, but you must know that I can't escape," he said. 

"Why?" Jerome asked with a smile. 

"Because Sofia Falcone is holding someone very important to me captive, and if I escape, she will kill him," Oswald quietly. 

"That's it?" Jerome asked after a moment of silence. 

"What do you mean, 'that's it?' Yes, that's it," Oswald said. 

"What's his name?" Jerome asked. 

"Like I said. It's _none_ _of your business_ ," Oswald said. They might be on somewhat friendly terms, but he was _not_ telling him about Martin. 

"Hmm," was all the redhead had to say in response, and he tapped his fingers against his chin like he was thinking. 

"Tell me something," Oswald said. 

"Hmm?" Jerome looked back at him. 

"You appear to have everyone here under your thumb. The guards, the inmates..." 

"What can I say? I'm a charismatic guy," Jerome said, leaning back on Oswald's bed and crossing his arms behind his head. His left foot lazily hung over the edge of the bed, swinging idly. 

"You could escape at any time. Why stay?" Oswald asked. 

"Why indeed," Jerome purred. It clicked in his head. 

"You're planning something," Oswald said. 

"Righty, old boy," Jerome responded with a smile. "Ya see, I'm in this funny farm because I need to find the creme de la crazy. Which is why I need you." His dark green eyes stared up at Oswald's intensely. 

Oswald huffed out a laugh. Jerome joined him, but Oswald became uncomfortable after a few moments and stopped. It took a while longer for Jerome's laughter to die off into a slight giggle. 

"Ah, you get it." He made a dismissive gesture with his right hand. "But when we're done... the world out there... that'll be the asylum." Jerome grinned at him. "What do you say?" 

Oswald pursed his lips and adjusted his grip on his mug of tea, shifting it between his thighs. 

"Thank you for your kind offer... but no," he said. His mind flashed to the letter he had sent earlier that day. "I don't expect to be here very long." 

Jerome looked disappointed for a moment before his face cleared, and he was his normal, crazy ginger self again. Oswald must have just imagined the disappointment. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'words' = sign language

Martin resisted the urge to scowl as the bearded man continued to cackle, eyes glued to the Detective Comics opened in front of him. The ballpoint pen in his hand scribbled against the white paper of his sketchpad. His stick figure of his captor looked exponentially better with a noose around his neck and crossed out eyes. He wished he could make that happen in real life. But he was just too small. There was no way he'd be able to overpower them and do anything like that. With a silent sigh, the boy gripped the edge of the paper and tore it from his pad, crushing it into a little ball and setting it beside himself on the scuffed hardwood floor. 

His eyes snapped up, startled, at the sound of a door slamming open. The boy pressed himself more against the wall, curling his feet closer to his body, as his captors rose from their seats to investigate the noise. The Detective Comics lay forgotten on the couch. One of them stayed in the room to keep an eye on Martin. His eyes widened at the sound of squelching and pain filled screams. There was a loud thud, and a red haired man strode into the room, covered in blood from head to toe. His tongue flicked out, swiping off a droplet of blood that dribbling by his mouth, his grin feral. 

A sharp looking knife was swinging from his left hand, almost carelessly, as he hummed a jaunty tune. His captor lifted his gun and aimed it at him with a shout, but the man just tsked like he was disappointed. Before his captor had a chance to shoot, the man had drawn his shoulder back and sent the knife flying at him. It sailed through the air and embedded itself in his chest. His captor made a gasping noise, and the gun clattered to the floor, slipping out of his lax fingers. The redheaded man strode over to him, clasping the handle of the knife, and he jerked it out roughly. 

He slashed it across the other man's throat in a smooth motion, and blood splattered up across his face and neck. His captor made a wet gurgle, twitching as he drowned in his own blood. The redhead wiped his face off with the back of his white sleeve, wiping off the knife on the dying man's shirt. He slipped the blade into the waistband of his pants. The man straightened, and his dark green eyes landed on Martin. The boy stared up at him as he walked closer. The redhead dropped into a crouch in front of him, cocking his head to the side like he was fascinated.

His red hair was more on the orange side of the spectrum, spiked up and wild. There were strange scars on the sides of the his face, looking sort of like someone had cut off his skin and stapled it back in place. Very crudely. There were scars extending from the sides of his lips in a disturbing parody of a smile. Dark circles painted the underside of his eyes. His eyes bored into Martin's, staring at him very intently. There was something off about him, indicative by the way he had just brutally murdered those men, but his scarred lips pulled up in a friendly smile after a few seconds. 

"Well, hey there. What's your name, kid?" the man asked. Martin stared at him, fingers curling around the leather of his sketchpad. "I'm Jerome. Mr. Oswald was gettin' _worried_ about ya." 

Martin picked up the sketchpad from his neck, and he put the pen to it. Jerome frowned a little as he scribbled on the paper, looking confused. Martin turned the sketchpad around, so he could see it. 

"Martin?" Jerome said. He was pronouncing it in the Anglicized version, with an 'in'. Martin drew a picture of an e and underlined it a few times, drawing an arrow to the i. "Marteen." The boy nodded. The redhead's scarred grin widened. "Cool name." He narrowed his eyes, looking speculative. "Can you not talk or something?" 

Martin shook his head no. 

"Ah. Well, ya know, I understand sign language. Do you know sign language?" Jerome asked.

Martin blinked. He pressed his right index finger against his lips, palm facing left, and he moved it forward in a quick motion. Jerome giggled. He lifted his hand up to shoulder height, balling it into a fist, and he bobbed it back and forth like a nod. Martin felt his lips twitch into a small smile. 

'You want to get out of here?' Jerome signed. He jerked his head toward the door. 

'Yes,' Martin signed back. 

"Coolio! Let's get outta here then," the man said. He extended his white gloved hand to Martin, and he pulled him to his feet as he stood up. "Kids are always hungry. I know I was. Whatcha want to eat, Martin?" Martin shrugged, letting himself be tugged by the man toward the door. "Eh, that's alright. Can't go wrong with tacos, can ya? Freaking love tacos." 

 

Jerome had threatened a street vendor, getting rather explicit with what he would do if he refused to 'feed the kid'. On one hand it was kind of disturbing, but on the other, Martin was impressed by the level of description he went into. The street vendor had gone pale after the first few sentences, looking like a ghost and scrambling to do what Jerome wanted. After a paper plate of chicken tacos was in his hands and Jerome had tossed down a wad of crumpled bills, the red haired man led him over to a bench at the edge of a random park to eat. Martin unwrapped the plastic wrap from the plate and lifted up a taco, biting into it. 

"You look a lot like him. It's weird," Jerome remarked, propping his head up on his fist, staring at Martin. "Are you his kid or something?" 

'What do you mean?' Martin asked. 

"Like, did your mom and him-" Jerome broke off to make a crude gesture, raising his eyebrows. "Ya know?" The boy scrunched up his nose, shaking his head. 

'No,' Martin signed. 

"Oh," Jerome said. 

'How do you know O - S - W - A - L - D?' the boy signed, setting the taco back down as he chewed. 

"Well, he and I, we're pals," Jerome told him. The boy frowned, taking another bite of his taco. 

'He doesn't have friends,' Martin signed. 'He said friends just stab you in the back. Useless.' 

"Huh. Then he's my, uh, partner, if you will, alright?" Jerome said. He hooked his two index fingers together with a grin. "We're like this." 

'How did you meet?' Martin asked. 

"Now that is a funny story. In a cafeteria actually," Jerome said. 


	5. Chapter 5

Martin felt a little bit sleepy after eating his food. He hadn't really gotten any sleep while he was at that safehouse those people had stashed him in, and all of the adrenaline from earlier seemed to have left. All of his energy wanted to just slide right out of him, leaving him bone tired. Martin covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a yawn. Jerome looked down at him, his expression going quizzical for a moment. His dark green eyes cleared of confusion, and a wide grin spread over his scarred lips. Martin rubbed his eyes and blinked at him. 

Jerome dropped to one knee, pulling the boy's hand he still held up and over his shoulder and holding it in place. Martin only blinked in confusion, unsure as to what he should do. Jerome smirked, grabbing the boy's other hand and wrapping it around his neck before locking his hands behind Martin's knees and lifting him into the air. Martin let out a small strained breath of surprise at the sudden movement, causing the redhead to laugh. He readjusted his grip behind the boy's knees, shifting him higher onto his back, and continued the walk back to the house. 

The red haired man carried him on his back, humming a jaunty tune, keeping a firm grip on the spot behind Martin's knees. No one had ever done anything like this with him, so Martin was a bit embarrassed and confused. It seemed more like the kind of thing that happened in movies or to kids with actual parents or brothers and sisters. Not with random psychopaths that rescued him from people attempting to use him as a political pawn in the Gotham criminal underworld. The man shifted his grip on Martin's leg, letting one go to open the door to the house. He shoved the door open, and he brought Martin inside. The door clicked shut behind them as they walked further in. 

Jerome giggled as he spun around, moving down the hall with the kid on his back. Martin felt a bit dizzy from all the spinning, but he had to admit that it was kind of fun. He was laughing, too, only without sound. The man dramatically waved his arms, making sounds like an airplane, and he zoomed back up the hall. Martin tightened his grip on the redhead's shoulders and waist, feeling a bit worried about falling off. Jerome spun around in a wheeling circle, his tennis shoe covered feet squeaking on the hardwood. The man abruptly came to a stop in front of a couch and knelt down a little to let Martin climb down. 

The boy stumbled for a moment before he landed on the couch, sitting down. Jerome plopped down on the couch next to him, flinging his arms over the backrests. Martin watched as he pulled out a camera, and he held it up. It looked like one of those old fashioned ones that popped out the photographs as soon as it had been taken. The man put a gloved finger under his jaw and tilted it up, signing with his other hand for him to smile. Martin managed a smile in the direction of the camera, and Jerome grinned, clicking the button. The flash went off with a pop. A photo slid out of the bottom. 

'What is that for?' Martin asked, moving his fingers through the air in front of his chest. 

"Proof of life is all. Mr. Oswald will want to know you're alright. He'll be coming to see you soon probably anyway," Jerome replied. 

'Does that mean you are going to just leave me here alone, then?' Martin signed. 

"Yeah. Don't worry, though, kid. I'll make sure he gets around here by at least tomorrow morning," Jerome promised him. 

'Really? You aren't lying to me?' Martin asked. 

"No. I'm not. Pinky swear," Jerome said. He locked his left pinky finger with Martin's. "I don't break those." Martin wanted to tell him that he wasn't five anymore, no one pinky swore at age nine, but he felt himself smile a little instead. Jerome grinned. "Now, let's get you to bed. You look tired, little guy."

Martin almost protested, but the yawn that came out betrayed him. The man helped him up from the couch and guided him over to an empty bedroom. The boy felt his consciousness slip away almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. He vaguely felt a blanket be pulled up over him. Martin snuggled closer to it with a sleepy sigh. Jerome felt his lips twitch up in a smile, and he walked out of the room, his footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. 

 

When Oswald came back to his room and felt hands cover his eyes, he very nearly smashed their foot, stomping down hard on the space behind himself. All he got in response was a breathy gasp and a hysterical giggle that immediately followed it. The hands came off of his eyes, and he was gripped by his shoulders, being spun around. Oswald blinked at the sight of the ginger maniac. The younger man grinned at him. There was a sparkle of something mischievous in his dark green eyes. 

"Hey, Mr. Oswald," Jerome said. 

"Where the hell did you go?" Oswald asked. He hadn't seen Jerome in nearly two days. The redhead's grin widened.

"I had some business to attend to. All done now, though. Ta-da!" Jerome said. He shoved a photo under Oswald's nose. Oswald did a double take at what was in it. There was Jerome, splattered in what looked like dry blood, next to Martin on a couch. The boy and him were smiling. 

"What did you do? If you hurt him-" Oswald started to say. 

"Mr. Oswald. I would never." Jerome sounded like he was scandalized. "Don't be so worried. Your baby penguin is perfectly safe. I got him away from that Falcone woman. Now you can come with me when we set my plan in motion," he said. "I sorta promised the little buy that I'd get you to see him by tomorrow morning, so... what do ya say? Wanna cause some chaos?" 

Oswald pressed his lips together for a moment. He did want to get out of here. He let out a small sigh. 

"Yes. Sure. Let's go burn down the city," Oswald said. 

"Fantastic," Jerome purred. He pressed the photo into Oswald's hand. "Get yourself ready. Our associates should be almost ready with their preparations." 


End file.
